


Ways to Love

by Viktuurious (Sourwoif)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Writing Prompt, and viktor still has his moments of depression, but they are eachothers safety blanket, now with art!, short and sweet, very fluff and comfort, yuuri is anxious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:32:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11948202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourwoif/pseuds/Viktuurious
Summary: Based on the writing prompt: "different ways to say I love you"“Hey,” Yuuri returned, unaware of his interruption. He balanced two plates in his hands, smiling up at Viktor, “I got you some samosas and those shrimp wraps that you like.”Viktor grinned and pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s temple.“There’s more than one way to say it,” Viktor offered.Yuri watched them, unsure how to respond. He settled with scoffing and walking off to find someone who made more sense.





	Ways to Love

Sometimes he isn’t sure what he’s looking for. He sits and floats away into his own mind while trying to look busy.

No one cared to look too closely, they got bored, moved on. If he was unlucky, they’d see his blank stare as an invitation for conversation. Usually, they took the hint.

He was currently pretending to take notes for future step sequences while his synapses floundered to explain why sometimes air tasted sweet and life was like potato chips. The universe felt suffocating and empty, his innards felt bloated with nothing, and the table reminded him of a tombstone. He briefly imagined curling up underneath it while a nuclear alarm went off in the distance, waiting for an end that would hopefully be brief and cathartic.

The front door clicked shut and he barely heard it. His notes were starting to look like the static snow his TV made whenever he wanted to watch cartoons as a child.

“Viktor?”

He tilted his head slightly to indicate he’d heard Yuuri, scraping his pen against the notebook paper nonsensically.

A chilled hand pressed to the back of his neck and he sucked in a breath. Clammy hands made him smile usually. Only Yuuri’s, though.

“You okay?”

His eyes inched up to Yuuri’s own, then to the red nose a few inches below them, and finally the nervous half smile resting below that. He put down the pen and leaned back into the chair, into the clammy hand still on his neck.

“Okay,” Yuuri said softly, putting down the grocery bag and shrugging out of his thick coat. “I’m gonna put the comforter in the dryer for a few minutes to warm it up. Find us a movie to watch, will you?”

He watched Yuuri go and felt roots curl at his ankles. Warm and full, he’d swallowed a star.

 

 

**

 

 

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

Still awake.

_In._

_Out._

His pulse hammered in his ear and when he lifted his chin from his chest his throat was sticky with sweat.

_In._

_Out._

He didn’t open his eyes, that would be conceding defeat. His eyes twitched beneath their prisons and his optic nerve strained as they twisted in his skull. Did his eyes try to see when they were closed?

Did they know to stop trying when they were sheathed?

Or like an overly sharp blade, did they try their best to slice through the darkness regardless?

_In._

_Out._

His tongue curled against his molars and checked for cavities. He felt a phantom throb of pain.

Was that a cavity?

Was he decaying?

Or was he just reminding himself that teeth could feel?

_In._

_Out._

His nose was making a whistling noise every time he sucked in air. He rubbed at it aggressively, not opening his eyes.

It still whistled.

He opened his mouth instead, defiant.

_In._

_Out._

The whistling stopped.

He flexed his toes and couldn’t forget them. They were wrapped in socks and blankets, but still cold.

When would Makkachin die?

His heart hammered harder.

His throat was starting to hurt. He closed his mouth.

His nose whistled.

When would his mother die? His father?

The middle of his back began to itch and he contorted to abate the sensation.

His eyes remained shut.

When would he die?

_In._

_Out._

The alarm on his phone shrieked and he opened his eyes. He felt the bed shift as Viktor reached over him to shut it off. The muscles of his eyes felt sore. The possible cavity in the back of his mouth throbbed.

Viktor looked down at him with bleary eyes and a tired smile.

“Did you get any sleep?” Viktor asked quietly, a hand curling against Yuuri’s cheek.

He opened his mouth and made a vague distressed noise.

Viktor giggled and leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. The morning sun crept in behind Viktor, illuminating him.

Yuuri shut his eyes. It was quiet again.

 

 

**

 

 

He showed up late. Not on purpose, exactly. Maybe on purpose, in a way.

The invite text came two hours ago, the restaurant was ten minutes away. Yuuri had already been out and had mentioned meeting up with everyone at the restaurant instead of stopping by first.

He was forty minutes late. He’d spent an hour telling Makkachin about Neil Degrasse Tyson. He spent another hour scrolling through his feeds and barely registering anything he saw.

For a few minutes, he ran his fingers through his hair and cringed at the oil that clung to them. Then, he stared at the shower and wondered if he could just put on a hairband, or a hat, instead.

He couldn’t stand Makkachin’s judgmental stare. A single lecture on a public figure astrophysicist and suddenly the dog thought it could look down on him.

He took a shower. He spent fifteen minutes pretending to be in a fifth-grade spelling bee. When he lost in the second round he took three minutes to wash his hair and body, and then stubbed his toe stepping out of the tub.

He cursed for another minute, and kept cursing while drying his hair.

The wardrobe mocked him and made him realize how lucky Yuuri was. Viktor could never get away with putting on a simple sweatshirt and jeans.

He opted for a sweater vest and bitterly lamented his loss in the fifth-grade spelling bee.

While waiting for his Uber, he tried to spell “onomatopoeia” and had to pinch the bridge of his nose for thirty seconds to force away the headache he caused.

His Uber driver made brief eye contact with him and he forced a smile.

The “o” towards the end of “onomatopoeia” was grossly unnecessary.

When he strolled into the restaurant and was led to the full table, he laughed off the grumbles.

“Even Yuuri thought you were asleep, you couldn’t reply?” Someone complained.

“I forgot,” Viktor smiled sheepishly. “I was sure I sent that text.”

“You didn’t pick up when I called,” Yuuri remarked, showing his phone.

“I was in the shower,” He lied, and he could tell Yuuri knew. The others eyed him for a few more uncomfortable seconds before the conversation resumed.

“What do you want to eat?” Yuuri asked.

He looked around, noting that everyone was well into their meal.

“It’s fine. By the time my order finishes cooking, everyone will want a nap.” He relaxed in his seat, ready to make small talk. They hadn’t gone out to dinner with friends in a while.

“At least try some of mine,” Yuuri offered, pushing a fork into his hand.

He obeyed immediately and took a bite of the food. His cheeks stung with the rush of saliva that followed. His stomach whined at him.

One swallow later and he was dragged into the conversation. He laughed at the silver-tongued quip shot by an adjacent friend, taking another bite of food.

Someone mentioned Putin and someone else pretended to have a stroke to change the subject. His good humor grew as he ate. Somehow, it was easier to smile.

He checked his watch when the check was called, taking a moment to mention something to Yuuri. He paused when he noticed the plate in front of him, completely empty.

Had he done that?

Yuuri smiled fondly when he asked, waving it off.

“I snuck a few bites in,” Yuuri joked. “Nothing too substantial, didn’t want to get stabbed by your fork.”

He blushed as his friends laughed at his expense. He felt sated in a way a meal alone couldn’t cause.

 

 

**

 

 

“You know, you guys never say it,” Yuri remarked during a post-competition banquet.

“Say what?” Viktor asked, sipping his champagne slightly. Yuuri had wandered off a few minutes ago.

“Well, usually when you hang up the phone or joke around with your spouse, you say “I love you” or something.”

“Hm. It’s not that we’ve never said it before,” Viktor smiled, running a finger along the flute in his hand. “In fact, we say it quite often.”

“Really?” Yuri asked, confused. It was rare to see the blond so earnest on the subject.

“Well—”

 “Hey,” Yuuri returned, unaware of his interruption. He balanced two plates in his hands, smiling up at Viktor, “I got you some samosas and those shrimp wraps that you like.”

Viktor grinned and pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s temple.

“There’s more than one way to say it,” Viktor offered.

Yuri watched them, unsure how to respond. He settled with scoffing and walking off to find someone who made more sense.

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have some late night fluff rambles. I should be studying. Noop.
> 
> Leave a comment, I love them!!! <33 (I like responding to them the most!)
> 
> come visit my art blog at sourwoif.tumblr.com !


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